Hawk

We’ve all had ’em, Kenny the Engineer and Part Time Roadie for rising hip-hop supergroup “B12 In Yo’ Azz” (they’re big in Belgium and France).

So hells, I’m inclined to give you a nottadouche and a goinpeace.

Stephanie, I’d like to see you behind the amp highrise in section 12. We have business to discuss.

And by business, I mean my pouring crumbled saltines and melted pop rocks into your sensible-but-stylish Sketchers, swirling them with purple drink, and then guzzling the whole thing while moaning in post-priapic pre-orgasmic ecstasy like a confused wildebeest that lost its bearings during northern hunt.

“Anybody can become angry – that is easy. But to be angry with the right person and to the right degree and at the right time and for the right purpose, and in the right way – that is not within everybody’s power and is not easy. Especially when the Sharkbag is macking on Tiny Mayan-Eye-of-Coitus Giggle Booble Fondles.”

At what point is this preening douchewank no longer considered a viable human, and is instead simply the sketchings of a limited graphic artist?

Props to the erotical facial moan of Mona for hott counterbalance. Her pouty lips push past the disaster of her clothes-strewn, utility bill unpaid, cheap third-floor-walkup rental on the south side of Pico and Robertson (her roommates want to kill her).